RUDIMENTS 942.

RUDIMENTS, pt. 942

(I guess the stairs were too much)

Much like old men in their season,

the heirs to Michelangelo will put

a bullet to the back of my head;

well, they will if I ask them to

anyway. I wonder if I should be

kneeling for that? I read once, in

some book or something by I

think it was Nick Tosches, that

if it's done right the body will

remain in that position, and not

even topple. Here's the quote:

"Louie pulled the trigger through

the plastic bag, [the pistol was

in, like an evidence bag], and

that was that. He stepped back.

Perfect. It was funny: if somebody

was kneeling and you did him

close and straight through the

head, really close and really

straight, just so, with no second

shot to jack him, he would stay

kneeling. But if you tried to set

up some collapsed, discombobulated

stuff to make him look like he was

on his knees when he went, it was

a real pain to do, and it never looked

right; never." I'll have to tell you

here, I really don't even fathom

what he's talking about, but no

matter. It reads OK, and I get the

writing. That's pretty much the

opening pages of the book  - which

aren't fun at all - robbery, anal sex,

pistols, nasty talk, and then that.

And then some guy getting it in

the back of his head. Dead out.

Some poor schmuck too, with

a wife and a kid; a guys who's

just trying to run some shitty

shop or store. I hate that much

negativity. Sometimes, in NYC,

I'd come across a crime scene,

probably something a lot like

this one  -  with police tape and

off-limits stanchions, some

waiting cop or two standing

mutely around, guarding a scene

only made important by death.

Small circles on the sidewalk,

drawn to show where bullets

were found, maybe a chalk

body-shaped outlined, where

the stiff had last been (well, hey,

what did you expect?). I always

used to make up funny Italian

names for the dead guys at

these scenes : Schmuckalou

Pignatelli; Rigatoni Miserecordia;

Pantini Lasagna Restorino.

Any one of them could have

been me.

-

Voltaire's brand of sound, I found

out much later, was some sort of

military band they all loved.

His shy, famous, nothingness was

its own laughter in the dark. It

lasted long, and it went far. It

sounded like echo, but in a park

filled with people; not a cave, nor

a cistern. Nothing. The noise of....

-

There was a barrel-garage, or a

barrel warehouse or whatever

it's called, back when barrels

were still used  - the wooden

kind, with staves and wood, made

by what were called 'Coopers,'

who were really just men good

with and at making wooden

barrels. Next time you meet

someone with the last name

Cooper, ask that person when,

if they know, their forbear came

over from Britain and if he had

been a King's Cooper (who were

on the Royal staff and made

barrels and stuff for the family);

wine-casks,  barrels, lids, side-

boards and all that. Or were they

related to the more lowly sort;

makers of barrels for nails and

oils and liquids and powders?

See if they know. This barrel

garage I speak of served the

west-side waterfront right

nearby. I can still find the area

and here and there some old

sign of what once was, but it's

mostly all gone now, and there's

no need for cooperage, freight,

storage, drayage, cargo. Hell,

there's nothing going at all now

except the usual nicely-titted

fancy-dressed girls, and guys,

jogging their little peedle-paths

through the Hudson Waterfront

jog parks and all that crap, with

stops for a latte and yogurt, the

food of Kings   -  or, well, Queens

anyway. (I'm not sure what a

peedle-path would be, but I liked

the word and left it in place).

-

What I'm meaning to say is that

some evil magician has taken my

world away from me. I won't

let it pass unremarked. The sailor

and stevedore guys, back on those

old 1960's boats  -  before cargo

containers and locked boxes  -

would throw things around, handle

freight like it was their own bananas.

Barrels would 'break' open and the

guys would need another one, but,

please, please, it had to look just

as battered. Not new, ok? It was

all a science, and there were

slats and pieces of wood of amuch

and varied vintage; I was always

amazed. The guy would say to me,

'Well, how are ya' doin' today?' I

never even knew why, and I'd just

answer 'Good, good, things are good.'

I used to think he probably figured

I was from some port of call 3

continents away, never knowing

much about anything like that,

talking the same to all. It was fun.

I had an uncle, a boat guy like

that, who jumped ship from

Germany, back in the late 30's,

and roved NYC. His brother or

someone had wired him not to

return to Germany  -  bad things

were up, he'd be conscripted, etc.

He stayed in NYC, learned the

language with my aunt, his future

wife, who told me they'd sit in

Yorkville (the German enclave

uptown-east) and view endless

American westerns, on movie

screens, and he'd pick up language

from that. I guess it worked; he

sounded good to me, even accented.

He always said, to me, when

anything occurred, in a slow

and heavy voice, 'Dun't Verry

Abowt et, Haf a Nutha Bier!'

I love language.

-

There's another scene in that

book, later on, about some guys

digging up relics, or a manuscript,

or something valued, and they

come across this : "This was all

the more curious as there seemed

nothing here but litter left behind

by the workmen: many crumbling

castaway newspapers from the

summer of 1928; wine bottles and

beer bottles and soda bottles; cigar

butts and crumpled cigarette packs;

food wrappings; broken tools, bent,

rusted nails, and shims and scraps

and shavings of wood  -  all of it

blanketed with the dust of a tomb."

Reads like the 1970's in NYC to me.

-

I was always at the rough and ready,

or, anyway, ready for the rough. It

never happened to me  - a friend I

knew jumped to his death from a

loft window, over by the Holland 

tunnel. Another guy died, somehow,

up in his eighth-floor rooms. It was

weird  -  without an elevator, the

building just had long stairwells.

Yeah they could tire you out, but

when he was dead, I turned the

corner once and, surprised, saw

a sort of police crane thing, and

up at the guy's window, as I 

remember it from a hook or a 

claw, with cops and guys standing 

around on the street, dangled a heavy

canvas-strapped body bag in some

sort of tray, slowly coming down,

on that crane hoist, to the ground.

I guess the stairs were too much.
When I found out it was him, in
that sack, I sure was surprised.
Heroin was the culprit. He'd OD'd.